


Serendipity

by orphan_account



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: M/M, Restaurant critic/Chef au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-15
Updated: 2016-01-31
Packaged: 2018-05-14 03:39:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5728282
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Furihata Kouki is a chef. Akashi Seijuurou is an amateur critic in his spare time.</p><p>(This is supposed to be a multichap work)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The First Epoch

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sarah (luwushuang)](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Sarah+%28luwushuang%29).



Kōki couldn’t look away.

It wasn’t in a good sense, like looking at a beautiful sunset or scenery or a smiling child, but in horror. Even as Fukuda tried to tug the iPad away from him he continued reading, checking and rechecking the text on the blog.

The very well-known, damning blog, who had something bad to say about _everyone_. And it pissed Kōki off to no end. The one sitting at the other screen probably had no clue how to cook a _chicken,_ let alone make a perfect signature sauce which went perfectly well with both red meats _and_ tofu, but they still thought it appropriate to call it ‘ _stodgy_ ’ and ‘ _uninspired_ ’.

“I’ll show them uninspired…” Kōki muttered, stepping on Fukuda’s foot when he made another lame attempt at snatching the iPad away. “I’ve read it all, so don’t bother—”

“There’s some good stuff, right?” Fukuda interrupted, and Kōki turned back to it with a frown. ‘ _Lovely atmosphere…stodgy and uninspired sauce…exceptional service…stodgy and uninspired sauce…chef Furihata’s signature desert was light and appealing…stodgy and uninspired sauce…_ ’ He shook his head and gave up on trying to find light of it. That sauce was his pride and joy. It was complicated and required the finest ingredients but it was _his_ , the one that earned him his first Michelin star (well, helped). If he had to choose between Fukuda and the sauce, he’d choose the sauce every time. He felt like this amateur blogger had just insulted his only child in the one thing they loved.

And this amateur blogger wasn’t just _any_ amateur blogger. They were well-known at least nationwide, a single review from them could make or break a restaurant if complimentary or damning enough. And they’d _publically_ and _viciously_ attacked Kōki’s signature sauce. “What’s wrong with my sauce?” he asked.

He still wasn’t used to the way he could make the atmosphere chill with only a command or a question. In school and college he’d been so used to cowering _himself_ , never being noticed or even taken all that seriously. It started to change in his last year of high school, maybe it was finally giving up on that girl who’d promised to go out with him, maybe it was starting to work in the restaurant down the road from his house and finding himself being given so much responsibility that he _had_ to be firm, maybe it was the various problems, monetary or otherwise, in setting up his now successful restaurant. But whatever the reason, whether one or a mixture of them all, the entire kitchen froze for a moment to eye him carefully before attacking at their jobs with renewed gusto.

“Your sauce? Nothing. Maybe it just wasn’t to their taste.”

Impossible. He turned on his heel.

“Where are you going?”

“Home!” he shouted back. Which wasn’t complicated, being only up the stairs round the back of the kitchen.

“How are you going to handle this, then?”

“Like an adult, don’t worry.”

-

Kōki read over his comment once more before clicking ‘ _Post_ ’.

And his stomach dropped. Maybe that was a bit harsh. Maybe he shouldn’t have insulted the blogger’s personality, or his single mistake which was probably a typo…or his looks. That was a low blow. He didn’t even know what this person looked like.

He quickly hunted around on the screen before groaning and slipping off the chair to fall on the floor. No delete button, no editing button. No way out. It may have been anonymous, but _he_ would know. He would feel guilty for _weeks_. Although he had horribly slaughtered his sauce. _Anyone_ who insulted it so cruelly didn’t _deserve_ to be treated politely.

“Stodgy,” he muttered.

Anyway, he probably got all sorts of comments of that kind. They were well known as blogs went, especially to anyone who was interested in food. And _anyone_ popular got some kind of hate.

They would probably laugh it off.

Kōki felt around from the floor to snap the laptop shut.

-

“Adult?” Fukuda said as soon as Kōki stumbled the last couple of steps to the kitchen.

Kōki eyed the landing at the top of the stairs from where he was _sure_ he could call orders down. That was probably cowardice, though. “Huh?”

“Adult? You _trash_ him on his own post and you call that _adult_?”

“How did you know it was me?”

“It was really obvious!” he shouted, slapping his shoulder. “Who else would be so protective over the _sauce_?” Kōki would let him rant for ninety seconds before edging his way to the stove. In all honesty, they might be best friends but Kōki was his _employer_ , he should be more polite. “And why on earth did you say they were probably too ugly to get a girl?”

“I—”

“I mean, you have no clue who this person is—”

“Fukuda—”

“You _yourself_ haven’t had a girlfriend since you were in highschool—” Kōki groaned and tried to edge away prematurely. “And anyway, this person could be a straight girl, they could be a gay man in which case they wouldn’t _want_ a girl… you know what, this could be the person of your dreams and you’ve just crushed your chances.”

“I know, okay? It was a mistake, I regret it, but I don’t know how to delete the comment.” Fukuda covered his face, shaking his head. “I’m sure, whoever they are, that they’re used to it. Have you seen some of the reviews?”

“They said everything but the sauce was good!”

“It was my sauce,” Kōki whined. “My _signature_ sauce, Fukuda.”

He lost him at that point, and watched, knowing that he was pouting like a child, as Fukuda left him standing at the stove.

He had to start at some point, anyway.

-

He noticed only when he walked right into a couple of the waitresses that people were distracted. They looked at him with wide eyes when he asked what was going on and quickly said that nothing was happening. Mere seconds later Fukuda burst through the door into the kitchen with a pale face. “He’s here.”

“Who?” Kōki asked, trying to peek through the crack between the hinges. “My dad?”

“No, the _blogger_ Furi. It’s…”

“How? How did he know it was me?”

“We went _through_ this. He wants to talk to you.”

“Crap.”

“Seems about right.” Kōki raked his hair back and squared his shoulders ready to project confidence and strength and _power_. “One more thing, Furi… it’s Akashi Seijūrō.”

Akashi Seijūrō was notorious not just within the business circle, where he dominated, but also as a household name. His methods were cutthroat, and as well as being immensely rich he was well-known for being a philanthropist. So as well as being terrified for his life, he could feel even guiltier. He peeked through the door but couldn’t force his feet to follow Fukuda.

“Can’t you pretend to be me?” he asked, scanning the tables for anyone that could be him.

“Sorry. I’ve already introduced myself. Red hair, Furi.”

He found the red hair—magenta, really. It _had_ to be dyed, no one could have hair like that. Well dressed—but he _had_ to be to get in. And _really_ hot. Like front cover of a magazine hot. Like excuse yourself to pour ice water over your head hot. “Oh _crap_.”

“I thought you might have some problems.”

“He makes the people I fantasise about look like trolls,” he continued absentmindedly.

“I wouldn’t go _that_ far—”

“At least come with me.”

He pushed Fukuda out before he could answer and slowly made his way to the table.

-

Ten steps from the table.

His legs were shaking. Fair enough, he wasn’t great in front of crowds and the crowd on the restaurant floor was large enough to worry _anyone_. Hopefully he wouldn’t fall to the floor, or at least manage to gracefully get up again. The recovery was important. He had to remember that.

Seven steps from the table.

His mouth was dry. And his throat was starting to do some weird constricting thing. He could only hope he wouldn’t make a croaking sound rather than talking. Akashi would _never_ be impressed by someone who couldn’t talk.

Five steps from the table.

Not that he wanted to _impress_ him. That would just be weird. He was probably quite an awful person—most critics were. He probably thought his opinion was all that mattered, and everyone who had a conflicting opinion would end up scraping roadkill off a highway, because they _obviously_ weren’t qualified for anything else. He was probably the type who tipped way too low and sent everything back. He was probably the type who judged anyone who served him for having such a low job but refusing anything less than the best _from_ those people.

Three steps from the table

He was starting to turn to look at him, and Kōki found himself hoping that he had a blemish on his beauty that was only visible from close up. Not like Kōki, who was plain both from far away and close up. No one expected anything more from him, they were neither disappointed nor pleasantly surprised.

Two steps from the table.

No. Annoyingly perfect. He had a bit of an odd haircut maybe—the fringe was a bit short to really suit him—but his face looked as if it had been carved by angels.

One step from the table.

He was _so_ screwed.

-

“Sir?”

Akashi blinked at him a couple of times as if he was imitating an owl. “You’re the head chef? Furihata-san?”

His voice was perfectly melodious. Kōki could fall asleep listening to that voice either talking or singing.

He was so _screwed_. But he nodded. “Yes, sir. I own and manage this restaurant.”

“I suppose you can guess why I’m here. It’s about that obscene comment you left on my review of your restaurant.”

“Ob- _obscene_? I mean… I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He could see Fukuda shaking his head and resting it in his hands behind Akashi, who stood up from his seat. He was a little taller than Kōki, no more than an inch. His eyes almost resembled that of a cats in the way they bored into Kōki and made him feel meters smaller, though. Cats were always condescending.

“This one?” he asked, showing Kōki the screen of his phone, which displayed the comment.

“It’s anonymous,” he fought weakly.

“Who else would make such a fixation on a _sauce_? I was complimentary about everything else.”

“Don’t dismiss my sauce like that!” Kōki shouted, and the low level of noise abruptly stopped at his outburst.

“Bring it into the kitchen,” Fukuda hissed to Kōki.

It was true that all these strangers staring at him were making him lose his nerve and his breath. It wouldn’t be long before he was wheezing something stupid or blurt out that he had a really nice chest that Kōki wouldn’t mind falling into (or just generally touching). Or maybe his arms would be a bit easier. He could brush up against him if they passed each other, just to see whether he was just as chiselled and strong as he looked.

“You want to talk in the kitchen?” he asked when Fukuda watched him expectantly.

In all honesty, he _wanted_ to do a lot more, but talking was probably more important than the intense temptation to tear his shirt off.

This wasn’t a porn film. They were just going to _talk_. He would not invite him upstairs, he would _not_ humiliate himself to that extent. He motioned with his head to the direction of the kitchen and Akashi followed him, armed with a notebook which he was already more than three-quarters of the way through. His handwriting was neat and elegant, like everything else about him.

“Why are you personally attacking me?” Kōki asked as soon as they were in the relative privacy of the kitchen, though he could feel the rest of the chefs turning to stare at them. “I didn’t do _anything_ to deserve that. You riled me up; _that’s_ why I posted the comment.”

“So it was you.”

“I was angry! I regret it, but I would probably do the same if I had the chance to go back.”

Akashi stared at him wide-eyed. “That wasn’t a very good apology.”

Fukuda shouted orders to the cooks loudly from behind Kōki, elbowing him in the back, though Kōki couldn’t fathom why. “You haven’t apologised to _me_ for what you said about my sauce.”

“I’m not going to apologise for having an _opinion_. And what about you? What is this juvenility? ‘You’re probably so ugly that you’d never get a girlfriend’?” He was getting a crease between his eyebrows, which were just as red as his hair. So maybe he _was_ a natural redhead, though Kōki hadn’t thought such a colour could be natural.

“That was a low blow, I admit.”

“Do you take everything so personally?”

He stepped closer, and Kōki tried to back away, but was stopped by Fukuda shoving at him again. “No. Just… that sauce. It reminds me of home.”

He smelt really good. Really… _manly_ , which was ridiculous and stupid but worked so well on him. When Fukuda shoved him again he let himself stumble forwards closer to Akashi.

“Then I’m sorry I didn’t enjoy it—”

There he was, insulting the sauce yet _again_. Apparently he didn’t learn, and no amount of beauty or lewd images cropping up in Kōki’s head or perfectly fitted suits could entice him away from defending his sauce. “What, you think you can do better? Do you want to take this to the street, Akashi-san?”

“The street? Are you challenging me to a _fight_?”

 _Dammit_. He got too passionate. “Th-the kitchen, I mean. A cook off. We can go up to my apartment and use the kitchen in there, or wait until service is over and cook down here.” Well, there he’d gone. Inviting Akashi up to his apartment. What did he expect, that the sauces would be forgotten, and instead they’d be grabbing at each other in rampant passion, tearing clothes asunder and falling to the floor in a graceful tangle of limbs?

Well, a small part of him was hoping for such a development.

“I’m not a _chef_ , Furihata-san.”

“Are you too scared or what?”

“I’m… _realistic_.”

“I’m not going to take your opinion into any consideration unless you can prove your worth.”

He’d gotten too close to Akashi, and couldn’t stop his eyes from flicking down to his lips, which curved in amusement. “Fine. I’ll wait until after service ends.”

Kōki couldn’t deny that he’d wanted to go upstairs with him, but they would still be _alone_. He’d be sure to kick Fukuda out of the building. “Would you like something to eat or drink in the meantime?”

“Whatever the chef recommends which doesn’t have that sauce,” he replied pleasantly.

It would be wrong to hit him, but Akashi was testing his patience.

-

Everyone was staring at Kōki when Akashi finally left, and it couldn’t have been because they noticed him checking Akashi’s ass out as he left the room. He was being subtle.

Fukuda gestured wildly beside him and they hurriedly turned back to the preparation, before smiling pleasantly when Kōki eyed him. “So what are you making our customer?” he inquired.

“Something with my sauce.”

“You never learn,” he grumbled, holding his hands up when Kōki glowered.

-

“I’m being served by the head chef himself?” Akashi said as Kōki approached. It didn’t _sound_ overly sarcastic, strangely enough, but Kōki still put the plate on the table with enough force to make the tower of fried tofu fall over. The other customers whipped their heads round when he swore at it.

“Sorry.” Akashi let out a sigh, and Kōki met his glare, daring him to say anything about it. It anything, an attempted murder in his restaurant would put it on the map.

“I requested anything _without_ the sauce.”

“I thought you requested the sauce,” Kōki countered.

Akashi looked legitimately confused, but waved him off as if he was nothing but a servant. Anger ripping through his body, he readied himself to shout or scream, or just batter him to the ground, but Fukuda appeared behind him to yank him away by his waist. “It’s really _not_ worth it. We’ll lose our liquor license if the _owner_ is attacking customers.”

“Then I’ll give him food poisoning.”

“ _No_.”

-

Kōki was having flashbacks of cowboy films.

He’d loved them for years, ever since he was a child, and was only hoping that this situation wouldn’t have soured them to him. He watched Akashi leaning against the counter before him, but Kōki was sure he was feigning the relaxed posture and was about to whip out some sort of weapon; whether it was one of the knives behind him or some sharp, witty comment.

“So are you actually suggesting we have a _cook-off_?”

“Yes. We’ll see if you know better than me.”

Kōki was sure he shouldn’t find being alone in his _workplace_ arousing in _any_ way. It wasn’t like they could do anything here—certainly it would be a health-code violation?—but when Akashi ran his fingers through his hair Kōki had to focus on _anything_ else. Like lions tearing gazelle apart. Or that time he didn’t clear his fridge out before going on a trip to Thailand for three months and came back to an object which _may_ have been cheese at some point in its life cycle. “In all honesty, I don’t know how to cook. I just have enough experience with Michelin-starred food that I know what to look for.”

“So… you don’t cook for a wife or girlfriend or anything?”

That was _smooth_. Even Kōki was impressed with his own subtlety.

Akashi raised an eyebrow. “I don’t have… a notable relationship currently, Kōki.”

 _Kōki_? His blood was fire, he was _sure_ his face was like a cherry, and dropping dead from an embolism seemed preferable to what he was probably going to do. It would be _really_ embarrassing when Akashi had to fight him off.

Akashi slowly walked towards him. “I’m not going to pretend I don’t know the real reason you wanted me here.”

“I… I did consider murdering you but I would feel guilty.” He was close. _Really_ close, and his hand was reaching for Kōki’s, threading their fingers together as Kōki let his eyes shut. Just like he was about to let this happen.

He didn’t know if he should feel overjoyed or horrified at his choice, in all honesty. 


	2. The Second Epoch

Kōki stared covetously at the fourchu lobster serenely gazing at him from the tank and mentally lamented as it was caught up and given to the person beside him. He was late _again_ , and _again_ most of the best fish had been sold. He had a decent tuna which was waiting for him on ice, and may have splurged a _little_ too much on saffron—he wanted to try something—but he’d specifically come out for _lobster_ , and the very best at that. In the years that he’d been at the top (or near to at least) of his profession he’d developed a sort of sixth sense for when a night would be a big night. For whatever reason, he was feeling that about _that_ night. Some high-ranking critic or famous and rich customer was on their way; he was _sure_ of it. And no lobster would be on the menu to really show off his opulence.

“Was that really the last one?” he asked, and the fish monger nodded.

“We have crab.”

“That’s fine.”

“Crayfish?”

Kōki raised his hands. “Really, it’s fine.”

“And razor clams.” Kōki nodded and gave a quick bow before making his escape, stopping to pick up his tuna and lugging it to the van with a loud sigh.

The next day he would get up an hour earlier for _sure_ , and not glare at his alarm clock before launching it to the wall to stop the infernal ringing. His phone had set off what felt like seconds, but was actually a good ninety minutes, later. He couldn’t bring himself to break his _phone_ of all things, and grudgingly got up only to realise that it was actually Fukuda calling him, checking if he was at the market. Which he promised he was.

White lies were fine. No reason to feel guilty, even if he regretted not getting up when he should have. But there was always tomorrow.

-

Kōki loved having the entire kitchen to himself on days they only opened for the evening. With almost nine hours to go before the restaurant would open and five before the chefs started arriving he could do whatever he wanted. Not that he _did_ , but he had the option. He could try parkour and leap from one island to the next, he could turn on every oven and bask in warmth during winter, or set up a chair in the massive walk-in fridge in the middle of summer (that last one he had done and had to explain himself to Fukuda when he was looking for him).

He was relieved, however, that he’d just stuck to filleting the ten tuna he’d bought that morning when Fukuda walked in without knocking. “I… didn’t manage to get any lobster,” he admitted straight away, and he cocked an eyebrow at the pause.

“Really?”

He finished another fish and placed the portions gently in the ice box.

“And it wasn’t because you were up too late to get them?”

Kōki scoffed. “Of course not. I didn’t get two Michelin stars from being _late_ to things.”

“So you haven’t been into the fridge at all today?”

“I only just started filleting—” he broke off when Fukuda opened the door to the fridge and curiously peeked in, only to see the lobsters he’d been eyeing neatly lined up on a shelf. “You got them!”

“I knew you weren’t even out of the door when I called you. I was already _there_.”

Okay, he should have listened to his mother. All lies were wrong, even white lies told for the purpose of saving face. “Thank you?” he tried. Fukuda eyed him.

“Get up earlier tomorrow.”

It wasn’t like he _couldn’t_ get up early. He had before managed to get to the market before it opened, found all kinds of gems, but then needed a nap before service started and could hardly keep his eyes open until closing time. “Maybe this is the wrong job for me,” he mused, pulling another tuna from the cold box and slicing off its head in a swift movement.

“Bit late for that.”

“Well, I enjoy it, you know? But the early mornings are awful.” He shut up when he noticed Fukuda rolling his eyes and cut into the fish, imagining Fukuda in its place.

-

He could only hope that his sixth sense wasn’t playing up on him when Fukuda dropped into the kitchen halfway through service and intercepted Kōki as he was hurriedly chopping more ingredients (technically the job of someone lower than him, but he felt weird when ordering other people to do the menial jobs and doing none himself). “Akashi’s here. Didn’t make a reservation but I still seated him.”

“Again? He came two days ago.”

“Can you put that knife down?” Kōki eyed him, but didn’t obey, instead pointedly cutting the ginger into smaller pieces.

“I’m working, Fukuda.”

“Well… he brought someone.”

The knife only stilled for a second, though it was _only_ because, in the years that Kōki had known him, he’d never brought anyone else along. Kōki had it in his mind that he was just a loner with little-to-no friends and no interest in romantic relationships.

“I just wanted to warn you and… well, so that it’s not a shock when you go out.”

“Why would it…?” Fukuda’s meaningful expression made Kōki roll his eyes and drop the knife. “Fukuda, we slept together _once_ almost five years ago, and it didn’t mean anything. I’m okay with him seeing other people. _I’ve_ seen other people.”

“I know, but—”

“I appreciate the sentiment, but it doesn’t bother me.”

It might have bothered him in the weeks _following_ the incident—maybe the year following the incident. For a while, at least, he’d been hung up on Akashi, wondering why he wasn’t mentioning what had happened, before realising that Akashi probably just wasn’t the type to be in a relationship. Now, they were just friends who’d had a fling a long time ago. Nothing to be awkward about. Nothing to _think_ about.

Although he may have thought about it quite a lot. It wasn’t easy, moving on from Akashi and realising that no one after affected him in _quite_ the same way, and probably never would. No big deal, Akashi had ruined him for any other sexual relationship, but he was doing fine as a celibate man. Regardless, the intense attraction he’d had to Akashi _before_ the ‘incident’ was mostly gone. He sometimes dreamt about him, but not often. Once a month, maybe.

Oh, there was that dream a couple of nights ago which had felt so real that _waking_ had felt foreign, he could almost kid himself that the agonising year after and the slow process to getting over him had never happened, that he was waking up to Akashi, able to watch him and not worry that their time was running out too quickly.

“Fine, it doesn’t bother me any _more_ ,” he insisted, when Fukuda continued staring at him.

“Are you still going out there?”

“If I have time.”

Fukuda squeezed his shoulder encouragingly, slowly retracting his hand when Kōki tightened his fist around the knife.

In all honesty, he’d probably _forgotten_ that they’d ever slept together. It was _one_ night almost five years ago—Kōki could hardly remember how the evening had gone.

Okay, that was a lie. He could remember the silk of Akashi’s hair as he caught strands between his fingers, the lovely, graceful shape his back made against Kōki as he kissed the nape of his neck, and warmth, unbearable warmth, even the memory of which made his head spin.

Fukuda called his name and Kōki snapped out of the reverie. “Should it bother me?”

“That he’s brought a date?”

“Exactly. I mean, for all _he_ knows I could be pining over him.”

“A-are you?”

In all honesty, that was a question which required some thought. He’d _enjoyed_ it, thought about it, and now considered Akashi a good enough friend that he always found _some_ space in the restaurant for him. Wasn’t bringing someone else taking advantage? “Not _pining_ , no.” He was about ninety-eight per-cent sure that was the truth. “But I’m considering not going out there to greet—” he broke off when Fukuda shook his head. “What?”

“I know it _shouldn’t_ bother you, but if you didn’t go out there Akashi would think you were pining. And that would make things awkward.” He slapped Kōki’s shoulder. “So go out there and act like it doesn’t bother you that he brought a date!”

“It _doesn’t_.”

“Good job.”

-

Kōki wasn’t sure why he spied on Akashi and his date before actually going out to them.

It took a while to spot them, to begin with, and after he was frowning at Akashi as he appeared to talk into thin air. After a good minute of wondering whether Akashi had completely lost his mind, or maybe had a Bluetooth earpiece, he finally spotted the small, blue-haired man sitting opposite him, only interjecting sometimes and spending the rest of the time looking at Akashi with a blank expression.

Seemed like quite a one-sided exchange, and Kōki wondered for a while whether Akashi liked this man a lot more than he reciprocated. Quite tragic, really. Quite deserved.

…maybe not, if Kōki was completely honest. He was just a bit aggravated that Akashi was _obviously_ trying to rile him up. But he wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. They were friends, and he deserved to be treated with _some_ manner of respect. Maybe he should insist that Akashi drop his informal speech when talking to him. Maybe he should insist that Akashi add ‘-sama’ to his name. Maybe he should force Akashi to bow whenever they met and parted, whilst Kōki looked down on him from a high vantage point. Completely prostate, _yes_ , as if he was begging for his life to be spared—

“You’re muttering and it’s getting creepy,” Fukuda said from his shoulder.

“I’m going to go see him,” Kōki informed Fukuda, and pushed away from him to finally walk towards the table, though his feet felt like lead.

He didn’t even know what his opener would be. The usual, a cheery greeting? Or should he channel the anger of being cheated on, even though he _wasn’t_ being cheated on? Perhaps something in the middle.

Akashi noticed him approaching and sat up as the man across from him jolted. “Akashi-san,” he greeted, coldly yet politely, with a professional smile. “I hope you’re enjoying your meal.”

Akashi blinked, whether at his overly polite greeting, or at how he was possibly (most likely) shooting daggers from his eyes. He had once told Kōki, on an evening where he’d stayed at the restaurant for hours after closing time, that when he was young ( _really_ young, he’d stressed, in a way that made Kōki wonder if he hadn’t been in his late teenage years at the time) that he’d wondered whether he could shoot laser beams from his eyes and spent much of a summer attempting to do that to anyone that annoyed him. Although it had (obviously) never worked, it had given him practice in bestowing people with pointed glares, which had apparently served him well over the years. It had been one of the times he’d seen Akashi most relaxed, even cracking a rare joke which had Kōki reeling.

He’d kind of regretted not asking him to stay over, but Akashi had left and he’d sat at his dining room table watching the two empty mugs, wondering why it felt so much quieter and lonelier.

“I am,” he answered, and Kōki had to spend a minute recalling what he’d asked him. After a moment in which Akashi studied his face much too close for Kōki’s comfort, he introduced his… companion as Kuroko Tetsuya, who inclined his head politely before doing that odd jolt again. Almost as if Akashi was kicking him under the table.

Meaningless chatter followed. Kōki politely asked what they were up to in the hope of garnering more information (dinner and a film at the cinema, according to Akashi, as they hadn’t seen each other in a while, and Kōki was _sure_ he was saying something about rekindling a flame and his heart dropped to the floor). He shouldn’t have garnered information. It just made him feel bad. And lonely. He backed away once Akashi had trailed off, catching sight of a meaningful glance that Kuroko threw in Akashi’s direction. Probably about to inform Akashi that Kōki was attracted to him, which _should_ have been evident from the way they’d met. It didn’t mean that anything had to _come_ from it, but surely Kōki deserved some semblance of respect in not having Akashi’s relationships shoved into his vision?

Fukuda eyed him when he entered the kitchen again. “So?”

Kōki shrugged. “So nothing.”

-

Kōki was being mature about the entire situation. The only _marginally_ immature thing he did was pretend he was too ill to come down the stairs to work, instead listening to the bustle and watching people enter from his vantage point on the window seat; easily his favourite part of the house (even if, at that precise moment, he could only think of the time he’d sat there with Akashi and all they’d done for the couple of hours together was read—as Akashi revealed a secret liking for light novels. Fukuda probably wasn’t fooled by his lame excuse, but at least no one else was brave enough to stand up to him and interrogate him for his choices. The restaurant would run fine for one night, regardless.

He curled up into his blanket—a gift from Akashi, and Kōki lamented over how easily Akashi had fit into his life—shivering almost on reflex as the wind picked up outside.

This was a step up. He hadn’t even checked Akashi’s blog to see if he’d made any comments on the service, the food, the _company_ , although he was burning with a need to. But he wouldn’t leave any anonymous, flaming comments that time.

He made his way across the wooden floor with two blankets draped across his shoulders, and had he been in a slightly better mood he might have pretended they were capes and run to his destination. But when he checked Akashi’s blog, there’d been no new updates for six months. Which was odd, because he _enjoyed_ writing those reviews. Perhaps he’d been too busy, although the time he’d spent at Kōki’s restaurant begged to differ.

He shut the laptop with a long, drawn-out sigh, and let himself fall—none too gracefully—to the floor.

-

The door knocked at precisely 10:58 the following morning, after Kōki had forced himself to go to the market and pick up some fresh produce. Kōki paused the film he’d thrown on to pass the time and sat up, listening intently before he would even _dare_ to open the door.

In all honesty, he was too fearful a person to live alone. Fukuda basically lived in the restaurant anyway; maybe asking if they could live together would be a good decision.

“It’s Akashi,” he heard, and he shuffled along with the couple of blankets that he would probably end up stapling to his shoulders to open the door. “I came last night and Fukuda-kun told me you weren’t well.”

Kōki eyed the hall behind him, wondering if he’d brought his… _friend_ along.

“I brought tofu soup and omurice,” he continued once Kōki had concluded that the blue-haired man was nowhere to be seen.

“Th-thank you,” Kōki stammered, and automatically stepped aside to let him in. “I’m fine, really. I should be back to work tomorrow.” Akashi’s hand was cold when he touched his forehead, and Kōki only just stopped himself from jumping backwards.

“You are a bit warm, but nothing alarming.” He didn’t wait for a response before going into the kitchen.

Kōki was not going to act like a school kid in some shoujo manga. He was perfectly aware of what he felt, though he didn’t _want_ to feel it. Shouldn’t he have fallen for Akashi just after they slept together instead of five years down the line of a good friendship? Instead, here he was, his heart dropping to the floor and probably being pierced by a few arrows. Maybe that was what he got for messing with the way the world was meant to be. Regardless, the lesson was learnt, _never_ fraternise with someone who had seen you at your most vulnerable.

-

He wasn’t going to refuse the food. If Akashi wasn’t much too busy with the conglomerate he ran he would have offered him a job as a chef. So once the soup and omurice was made and Akashi placed it in front of him on the table he dove onto it and hailed it as the best of comfort food.

“Why are you here, though? Surely you have better things to do than take care of me.”

Akashi frowned pensively, mulling it over as he chewed his own serving. “I find myself in some difficulty.”

“Oh?” Maybe there were troubles between him and that blue-haired man?

“Some decisions to make about the company.”

“Oh,” Kōki said, almost pouting at the table. “Is it anything I can help with?” he continued.

Akashi shook his head. “Being here… clears my mind,” he admitted.

Kōki nodded once, not pushing it further, and slipped into a comfortable silence.

Fukuda had asked several times how they’d ended up friends after what should have been an awkward first encounter, and Kōki hadn’t really been able to respond with anything but “We clicked,” which was never a satisfactory answer. The morning after had been fairly awkward, sure. Kōki had woken up encased in Akashi’s arms and had roused him accidentally whilst struggling away from his embrace. Their eyes had met when he woke up, and Kōki’s cheeks had heated up so much that he was surprised he didn’t burst a blood vessel.

He’d _never_ done such a thing before. Well, he’d had sex before but not with someone who was, for all intents and purposes, a stranger. Not with someone whom he’d hated for a good percentage of the time they’d been… _acquaintances_. So he had no idea what the protocol was when waking up with that sort of person. Not to mention this wasn’t _any_ random person, he was _known_ and powerful and really rich. Kōki could only hope that he wouldn’t hire a hitman to take him out to keep the affair quiet. “I won’t tell anyone what happened,” he blurted out.

Akashi had blinked. “Excuse me?”

“I won’t. I mean, you probably have some rich fiancée or partner or whatever, so rather than you threatening me to keep quiet, I’ll just say right out that I’ll tell no one at all, this can be over, we don’t have to tell anyone or talk to anyone about it—”

“Breathe, Furihata-kun,” Akashi had ordered, and Kōki obeyed gratefully, his head having started swimming from lack of oxygen. “I wasn’t going to threaten you into keeping quiet.”

Kōki let out a relieved sigh. “Thank you. So we can forget about what happened?”

Akashi had studied him wordlessly for a moment which dragged on far too long, testing the strength of Kōki’s will to not run screaming from the room and onto the nearest plane, wherever it was headed. “If you wish,” he’d finally said, gracing Kōki with a smile (which may have affected him a little, just enough to compel him to take a sharp breath in).

He’d expected that to be the last of it, that Akashi would walk out of the door and never look back, but that evening he’d shown up. Kōki had broken a part of himself in the process—maybe his heart, maybe his mind, maybe his self-respect—but time after time Akashi was in his company, being charming and polite. It didn’t take long for him to count Akashi as one of his closest friends.

“What are you thinking about?” Akashi asked, snapping Kōki out of his reverie.

He froze when their eyes met, only able to remember when they first met and Akashi’s eyes on him made him feel excited like nothing else. Maybe it still did. Even though Akashi had no more interest in him. “I think I’m getting a bit of a temperature,” he said, slapping Akashi’s hand away when he tried to feel his forehead. “I’m a grown man, Akashi, and I don’t want to get you sick.” He forced a smile when Akashi furrowed his brow at him. “Go,” he ordered. “Thanks for the food.”

He eyed Kōki before leaving, and Kōki used his lack of opposition as a reason to _not_ fall for him.


End file.
